


With All The Strength Of A Raging Fire

by shiveringhand



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Child Soldiers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Military Training, Propaganda, Teenage Drama, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiveringhand/pseuds/shiveringhand
Summary: Sarah is a new WLF recruit. Isaac sees potential in her and assigns his best soldier Abby to mold her into shape just in time for an upcoming operation.---"Abby's a… goddamn warrior goddess! Nothing can touch her.""Least of all you," Becky remarks.I blush and throw a pillow at her.
Relationships: Abby (The Last of Us)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. This Guy’s Got ‘Em Scared To Death

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a mood playlist:
> 
> Chapter 1:  
> Parallel Universes - Daniel Olsén  
> 2\. Head Shoulders Knees & Toes - Offenbach, Quarterhead
> 
> Chapter 2:  
> 3\. Bad News Baby (Digital Farm Animals Remix) - ALMA  
> 4\. Eyes Off You - M-22, Arlissa, Kiana Ledé
> 
> Chapter 3:  
> 5\. My Girl - ALMA  
> 6\. I’ll Make A Man Out Of You - Acoustic Heartstrings

My name is Sarah Marsh. I’m fifteen years old and I’ve recently joined the Washington Liberation Front. It’s an organisation located in Seattle that provides housing and training for people like me, drifters. Ever since I lost my parents to a horde of raging clickers, I’ve been thanking my lucky star the WLF found me and gave me shelter at their base in Soundview Stadium. So far I’ve only worked the kitchen shift. It’s tiresome but I kind of like it. They tell me I could advance into farming and animal care real soon. My dream is to raise horses and dogs one day.

At first I wasn’t really sure what the WLF, sometimes nicknamed The Wolves, stands for. I felt out of place and lonely. But then I discovered all of their youth groups and gained some new friends. Together we chant uplifting songs and organize hang outs and movie nights. Whenever I’m not working the kitchen, me, my friends and my roommate Terry play football in the yard. 

One afternoon after my shift, as we are goofing around on the field inside the stadium, a military truck stops by the fence and out hops a guy with a huge assault rifle, insisting to know our names. We tell him our names and stations one by one. The soldier leaves after making up a command like “Make sure the ball doesn’t fly into someone’s window.” We promise him we will and as soon as he drives off we snicker and mock him, imitating his grumpy voice and posture. 

The next day, however, as I work in the kitchen, Terry comes to see me. He looks a little out of breath and quite frankly annoyed to be there. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask him, “You’re not on break yet.” 

I know this, because we often spend our breaks together, throwing grapes into a cage full of chicken and watch them go crazy over the extra treats. They run like madmen, bumping into each other and picking each other’s toes, trying to grab a bite. 

Terry steps closer, making sure I’m alone in the kitchen. “I’ve got a message to deliver to you,” he whispers, acting all mysterious. 

“What?” I ask loudly and laugh, because his odd behaviour makes him look so silly.

“Shh, I have a message to deliver you,” Terry repeats and lowers his voice. “It’s from Isaac.” He looks around nervous, as if mentioning the General’s name is somehow forbidden. 

Everyone seems to worship the ground around that man’s feet. It may seem funny, but I had learned early on, why it was like that. Back in the day, during the outbreak, Isaac had been the one to unite the people of Seattle under WLF. At least that’s what I was told. To get a message directly from him, not even one of his most trusted subordinates, is a great honor in itself. So I assume that’s why Terry acts so weird about the whole thing. 

“He wants to train you to become a soldier!” Terry tells me, unable to keep his mouth shut.

“What? Me? A soldier?” I laugh, in disbelief. I could never be a soldier. My knees are weak and I can’t handle seeing blood. “I would make a shit soldier. Why does he want me?” I ask, lifting a heavy bag of potatoes off the ground, intending to carry it across the room so that the cook can start preparing a meal. 

“Well I don’t know,” Terry admits. “It’s just the orders I got. A guy just gave me this letter saying to deliver it to you. So, here, take it!” He shakes an envelope, expecting me to grab it.  
  
I hoist the potato bag down and stretch my back. “There has to be some sort of mistake,” I insist.

“Whatever,” Terry scoffs, pushing the letter into my hand. “I shouldn’t even be here right now,” he mumbles and I realize he’s acting so weird because he’s jealous. 

I frown as I rip the envelope open, breaking the dark red seal on it that reads Isaac Dixon in cursive on it. The paper is brown and feels firm. Up in the ranks they’ve got some fine materials, I think as I pull out the letter and a piece of paper falls out. Terry picks it up and scoffs, wanting to show it to me, but I’m too busy reading. 

_Dear Ms Marsh,_

_It has come to my attention that you have shown exquisite potential in the areas of not only strength and discipline but punctuality as well. According to my sources you are hardworking, able bodied and willing to learn. Well done! These qualities are few and far between, and although are partly teachable, as a natural occurrence, are something to marvel at._

_As you search for your place in our society, I would highly advise you to familiarize yourself with our Safety and Security Program For Youth. The way I see it, you and most of all, the good people of The Washington Liberation Front would highly benefit from your contribution. After all, we must all choose our own path sooner or later, and the best way to serve, is to know one’s place._ _  
_ _  
_ _Enclosed, are the details for your next assignment. Please report to your assigned officer by the training course, tomorrow at 0500 hrs sharp. I expect grand things for you, Sarah. Don’t let me down._

_May your life be long, may your death be swift!_

_General and First in Command,_

_Isaac Dixon_

I lift my gaze from the paper after I’ve read it twice. It still doesn’t make any sense no matter how many times I browse through it. 

“Isaac wants me to join the Security team…” I mumble, pressing a hand on my forehead, speechless. My mouth hangs open from confusion and I barely register it when Terry hands me the piece of paper that had fallen off from the envelope. 

“Here,” Terry says. “Think that’s your coach?”

I turn the paper over and see a photo of a grim looking blonde woman with a long braid, saluting the WLF flag. Underneath the picture is scribbled her name, Abigail Anderson. 

“Well she looks like no fun,” Terry points out, jealousy now clear in his voice.

“Yeah,” I agree, barely hearing my own voice as the hum of how surreal the situation is fills my ears. “I guess I’m gonna become a soldier,” I say and take another look at the letter and the photograph as if to make sure they haven’t suddenly evaporated into thin air and this is all just some sick joke.

\---

My alarm goes off at 4:15AM. It's not a particularly early hour for me, as many of the kitchen shifts start before dawn too. The problem this very morning is that I could barely sleep last night. I kept turning in my sheets, restless, and imagining what would happen if I were to fail this volunteer camp. As kind and protective as the WLF had been to me, somehow I can not shake the feeling that I'm being tested in some horrible way and if I don't succeed, my place under the watchful eyes of Isaac is forever lost. Once I eventually do fall asleep I dream of having to stand still at target practice as the rest of the class aims at me with rifles. The coach grows meaner and taller and hairier until she's an actual six feet tall wolf snarling in my ear, telling me to stand straight so as not to get shot. Needless to say, when my alarm goes off at four in the morning, I feel everything but ready for the new day's challenge. I take a quick shower and grab a bite to eat. I don’t actually have any training clothes so I just put on a t-shirt and a pair of my dad’s old shorts. They’re more than a few sizes too big for me and I have to make a tight knot on them just to prevent them from falling off. That’s the last thing I’d want to be remembered by on the first day. 

Terry is still fast asleep when I sneak out of the kitchen staff dormitory. That lucky bastard, I sigh, as I run up the stairs and into the cold foggy yard outside the stadium. My old sneakers have holes in them and aren’t really my size anymore, the tips pinch my toes. I just haven’t really gotten around to asking how to issue a new pair yet. I make my way to what I think will be the RDV point, a gloomy field behind a low concrete building that must’ve once been painted yellow. At 5:05AM when no-one still has arrived, I start to get really nervous. I look around, trying to see if there's anyone who knows what's going on. Maybe I got the wrong day, maybe training has been canceled due to grey weather. 

I spot a janitor idling by the building corner and walk over to him. Putting on my bravest little soldier-to-be posture and voice, "Excuse me, sir," I address him, and the poor fellow is this close to choking on his sandwich. He shoots up and… salutes me, a little girl in oversized gym shorts, stuttering something like "Th-they let me guard the yard while they install the pipes."

I frown, not caring to know more. "Is there a training program starting here this morning?" I ask, dropping the soldier act.

The janitor seems to calm down in an instant. "Yes. Yes there is," he says, rubbing his bearded jaw, still a little nervous. "On the other side of the building. In the courtyard, but-" 

"Shiit!" I don't let him finish his sentence. I just sprint off, rushing to get to the other side as fast as I can. "Shit, shit, shit…" 

When I turn the corner, I see a group of young people stand in a formal line listening to someone speak in front. As I get closer, several kids turn to look at me, and the coach, more menacing that in her picture, but not quite the wolf of my nightmare, shouts at me.

"You're late!"

I take support from my knees, trying to catch my breath. "I- I have an explanation. I got lost and-"

"Wrong," she says. "You have a schedule. Stick to it. 12 laps." 

"What?" I straighten my back and stare at her, not realizing I've been given my very first order. 

"12 laps around the courtyard," the coach commands, glaring at me like I’ve somehow offended her by making her repeat herself.

The other kids in the line stare at me, horrified. Even the skinny one who looks like she'll be out by the end of the afternoon. I feel heat rise on my cheeks as I start jogging past them. After two laps across the yard I'm not too sure it won't be me who doesn't make it past day one. 

The coach is ruthless. She makes us do push ups and sit ups on gravel and when someone complains about it or has bruises, she tells them they can quit any time they like. Of course no-one does. For some of them, there's no going back to join something as cozy as the kitchen staff, with its moldy cleaning rags and aggressively handy chefs. To some, by the looks of their determined faces and gritted teeth, this is all they've got. 

I find out very quickly, that the training would not be canceled due to grey weather or rain. The coach would probably make us work through a tornado or something if she wanted to. I’m scared to even think of anything worse, when she makes us run five miles in a hail storm in the afternoon. Afterwards in the evening I collapse on my bed, unable to reply to any of Terry’s inquiries about how it went. 

The first week is hell. The gym program is pure torture. I can barely lift an arm or hold a fork at lunch, that’s how bad it hurts. Almost half of the class drops out before the weekend and it makes the level of the class even higher as all the remaining trainees are way better at everything than me. If in the beginning I was somewhat average, now my weak arms and void stamina have exposed me as the weakling of the class. And the coach knows this. She makes me carry extra weights and shouts at me if I drop one. She’s mean and heartless, telling things like “You wouldn’t last a minute out on the field,” and “I could snap those arms of yours in half in my sleep!” 

We are told that our class is special. Us kids will be first-line in an upcoming attack on a known enemy base downtown. Those who follow through with the full program and pass every category, will at graduation be eligible to join in on the hunt. Several people cheer and clap their hands excitedly but I have no idea what to think other than the fact that I want to make Isaac proud and earn my place in the WLF. If completing the program and passing the test is what it takes to be a true soldier, then so be it.

On saturday afternoon I idle by the mess hall, sore and exhausted, feeling like I’ve done nothing to deserve my place with the WLF. I’m convinced the coach hates me and has made it her life’s mission to torture me until one day I just can’t get up anymore and I’m just wheeled out of the safe zone, half conscious; they’ll leave me to my own devices, and watch me get eaten alive or skinned by the savages. Just as my lamenting is reaching its peak, a funny looking soldier hands me a letter with Isaac’s seal on it. I’m convinced I'm getting discharged due to my hideously bad stats but turns out it’s his personal congratulations on passing week one. Instead of being thrown out, I’m assigned a new room and get told to move all of my stuff from the old kitchen staff dormitory by the end of the day. Terry is upset and refuses to help me look for my things. He says Isaac’s arbitrary rules can’t stop us from being friends. I tell him I agree, already assuming we won’t be seeing each other again anytime soon. 

The new room, located on the inner rim of the Soundview Stadium, is clean, silent and, what's even more luxurious, above ground, barely, but still; a huge upgrade to the underground dorms of the kitchen staff. We have a view to the field, to a parchment of blue sky blocked only by the bright colored Wolf flags floating in the wind, free and unobtainable. The room is shared only between me and two other girls. We have bunk beds and a private bathroom. My roommates are called Tina and Becky. Becky is about as wide as she's tall, sheer muscle from head to toe, tells us she used to work in a mine up north. Neither Tina nor I dare ask why or how she left, we’re just happy she’s safe and part of the WLF now. Tina is the same age as me, cute as a button and has silky black hair, combed back so tight I’d see stars if I tried the same look. She’s slimmer and slightly taller than me, and her being the top of our class makes us instantly best friends and each other’s worst rivals.

With our elevated status as rookie soldiers we get to pick a pair of marching boots. The coach takes us to a strictly guarded warehouse full of supplies and tells us to climb into one large container full of used leather boots. We dig through the pile, searching for our size, not wasting one thought to where the boots come from. To us it’s like getting extra pudding at lunch. 

After the boot hunt things get even more exciting. We not only get our own dog tag ID’s to wear around our necks but a pair of shiny new sneakers as well! I throw my old worn out pair straight into a bin and pull the new ones on, feeling like I’m truly moving on in the world. We also get a grey sweatsuit with the growling wolf logo on the shirt front. Washington Liberation Front text runs down the side of the right thigh of the bottoms as well. 

And as if that isn’t enough already, we are told to choose our size in grey t-shirts with white W.L.F. text spray painted on the front. They are matched with a pair of black training shorts. I finally get to wear something more my size. As we toss our old clothes into a recycling bin to be distributed to “the less fortunate” I feel a little sad, having to part with my dad’s old shorts. It feels like a part of him dies with them. It’s silly, I know. My dad’s long gone and they’re just a pair of old pants. Recycling means they can do so much good to someone else now. And even though I know all of this, I sigh a little somberly as I walk back in the line in my shiny new sneakers. 

“From now on, this will be your uniform,” the coach tells us. “Wear it with pride,” she says and salutes us. 

We mirror her, pressing our ankles tight together and straightening our backs as we salute her back.

The coach teaches us to salute upon the arrival and exit of anyone who outranks us. At first it seems a bit silly but once we get the hang of it, it only feels proper. 

“Everyone has their place in the organisation,” the coach explains. “When you face hardships and victories in the course of your service, you deserve to be greeted with dignity.”  
  


\---

  
Despite the coach’s awful methods and rude attitude, I do slowly notice changes in my body. I can run longer without getting completely out of breath, and my weak arms start showing signs of muscle growth. I am also able to do pull ups, something the coach makes look easy with her big strong arms, but which turns out to be a huge pain in the ass to train for. She lifts us up one by one to the bar and makes the rest of the class watch as you struggle to move yourself even an inch. And she won’t help you down even if you beg and plead, feeling your sweaty palms slip on the cold metal bar, not before she sees some effort in you at least, or horror. The more we train with her I start to think she sees those two terms equal. Effort and horror.

On the next Monday we have gym at six thirty in the morning. Me and the girls arrive a little too early and realize the class hasn’t started yet. Other people, mostly active duty soldiers, are already training there, making me wonder if the gym is actually ever empty. We lean against the wall on the side and gossip about whatever went down at the mess hall yesterday afternoon, when suddenly I spot our coach in the crowd, doing her own workout routine on a bench press. She’s got headphones on so I try to imagine what kind of music she’d listen to, something loud and offensive most likely. I admire her strength as she stacks up more weights to the bar and settles back down on the bench. She spreads her legs and grabs a good, solid grip, slowly bringing the bar all the way down to her sleek chest. She breathes out, loud enough for me to hear from across the room, and pulls the heavy bar back up with effort. She repeats the move, every vein and curve of her muscular arms and neck gleaming with sweat. The collar of her grey tank top is damp and small pearls form on her temples as she forces the bar up and down repeatedly in a slow controlled manner. Once she’s done with a full set she reracks the bar and sighs relieved. I stare at her and her red hot face with my mouth wide open, no doubt looking like an idiot. Becky makes a remark about it, as apparently I’ve stopped paying attention to what they’re saying. 

“Earth to Sarah, hello!” Tina laughs, waving a hand before my face. 

“She’s gone,” Becky grunts bluntly and sips from her WLF issued water bottle with the wolf logo on it. 

Across the room, I see the coach sit up and wipe her face in a towel. She checks the clock on the gym wall and seems to realize it’s almost time to start our class. Gathering her stuff she hurries off to hit the showers. My imagination doesn’t allow me to follow her there. Instead, I try to focus back on what the girls are saying. 

“Huh?” I mumble, blinking my eyes. “Yeah, I totally get why Jack stole the last burrito.”

Tina and Becky glance at each other. “We changed subjects like twice already since that, Sal.”

“Uh huh,” I nod, starting to rummage through my bag in order to find back Isaac’s first letter and the picture that came with it. Once I find it, I carefully unfold the paper and pull out the coach’s photo. The corners have gotten a little folded so I smooth them out between my hands, trying to fix it. As I stare at the saluting officer, her sturdy build and serious face, a rush of unexpected warmth flashes over my whole body. I move my thumb to read her name from the bottom of the photograph again, _Abigail Anderson._

“Abby _..._ ” I whisper to no-one in particular and brush a finger gently across her face.

Becky raises an eyebrow but doesn’t have time to say anything when the rest of the class starts pouring in and she stands up to go and talk to someone else. Quickly, I put the picture back inside the letter and push it deep inside my bag. We start doing calisthenics, knowing fully well the coach will wreck us if we skip our warm-ups. It’s six thirty on a Monday morning and for the first time ever, I have fallen madly, deeply in love.


	2. Swift As A Coursing River

One week of tormenting workouts, humiliation and exhaustion later, we stand in a perfect line at the yard outside the stadium. Everyone’s wearing the same white t-shirts and black shorts we were given. There’s no coming to class without them on. It’s a bright sunny day but the wind makes standing on an open field a little uncomfortable.

Abby asks us to gather around her by a tall metal container. She’s wearing a pair of green cargo pants and a grey tank top and her hair is neatly braided, as usual. A handgun rests against her well rounded thigh in its holster. I try to keep my eyes in her face rather than the holster belt strap pressing against her leg, and the way the gun jiggles slightly everytime she moves. 

“Let’s say you and your teammate run into a dead end on the upcoming mission and getting on top of this is your only way out,” Abby says and pats the container's bright red surface. It echos faintly, indicating that it’s empty. “What do you do?”

The class hesitates but Tina’s hand shoots straight up.

“Yes?”  
  
“I’d look for anything we can use to climb on top of it.” Tina replies with confidence.  
  
I feel so proud to be her friend right now. 

Abby spreads her big freckled arms, looking around on the desert field. “Don’t see many useful things around here. Do you?”  
  
“N-no, ma’am,” Tina swallows, shaking her head. 

I frown, trying to solve the puzzle. 

When nobody can give her the answer fast enough Abby claps her hands together sighing and asks for a volunteer. This time my hand is the fastest one to rise. She picks me, and I get to walk to the center of everyone’s attention. Abby kneels down next to the cargo container and rests her hands on one knee, palms up. 

“When you run into a dead end,” she begins again, “one of you can boost the other one up.” 

My eyes light up with the realization that I get an excuse to actually touch her. 

“Alright,” Abby says, beckoning me over with a simple hand gesture. “You’ll kneel down like this. Make sure to keep your back straight,” she teaches the class. “You don’t want to break your teammate’s ankles or injure yourself.” She rubs her neck to demonstrate it but I doubt someone like her ever pulled a muscle. She must’ve been born looking the way she does. I bite my tongue, trying to focus on the task at hand.

Abby repositions herself and advises me to grab a hold of her shoulders. I step on her palm and instantly get really nervous. 

“What if I fall?” I ask, considering my chances of dying right then and there. 

“You won’t,” she reassures me. “I’d catch you.”  
  
I nod and lean my full weight on her palm, supporting myself awkwardly on her shoulders. She feels warm and sturdy, safe.

“Keep your leg straight when you jump. Firm posture,” she says, and I have to tell myself not to look down because her face is right about on the level of my crotch. 

“Okay?” she confirms and I nod, eyes firmly on the red cargo crate. 

I take a sharp breath and push myself up, reaching for the ledge of the crate. Suddenly it feels like I weigh nothing as Abby boosts me up. I have no time to plan my landing whatsoever, so with a loud thump my body slams against the cargo crate’s roof, hitting my leg quite painfully on its sharp ledge. The class cheers but I feel like an idiot, stumbling like that. Quickly, I pull myself up and fix my hair.

“Atta girl!” Abby shouts and dusts off her hands. Seeing her positive reaction gives me a rush of adrenaline and so I grin and flex like a fool.

Becky laughs enthusiastically and Tina claps her hands along with everyone else. Abby steps back and walks over to her backpack that she left on the grass.

“Wait, how do I get down?” I ask, suddenly realizing this might have all just been some sick joke to leave me up here for the rest of the day. 

“We’ll get to that next,” Abby chuckles and grabs her notebook for score keeping. She licks the tip of her pen and writes something down. I hope it’s my name. 

\---

In the beginning of our training we were told that the program’s aim is to prepare an elite group of kids who get to ambush a known enemy base downtown. The thing is, only those who complete their assignments and physical training with top grades, get to participate. I’m still rather indifferent about the ideology and certainly not jumping at the opportunity to be taken back outside the WLF compound limits without a good reason. 

However, the harder I train, the more attention I get from Abby. So I start paying attention in class and push myself further. Slowly but surely I get stronger. Several classmates see the effort I’m putting in my training and call me a try hard but I don’t mind it, because I _am_ trying very hard. Trying to get noticed. 

Eventually I gather up the courage to ask for private tutoring from Abby. She’s flattered and admittedly quite excited, according to her own words, to be giving extra lessons to her top girl. I blush and mumble something about as embarrassing as ‘I learn from the best’. But once the first lesson rolls around, I discover, to my horror, that I’m not the only one yearning for Abby’s attention. When I arrive at the gymnasium I find my best friend Tina getting her knee massaged by none other than Abby! 

“Oh hi, Sarah!” Tina greets and waves at me like she isn’t just getting caught red-handed with my woman. 

“Hey,” I mumble back at them, still trying to process what’s going on. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I have a class starting right about now with-” I pause, signing at whatever it is the two of them are in the middle of doing.

“You too?” Tina gasps, jumping up from the floor and rushing to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re here, bestie!” she giggles, not intending to let go of me. 

“Yeah…” I sigh and push her off as kind as I can. “So, you’re tutoring the two of us at the same time?” I ask, turning to Abby and trying not to sound as betrayed as I feel.

“Hope that’s not a problem?” she says, standing up and smirking at me, perhaps sensing the tension in the situation.

“Of course not,” I reply immediately, hoping the blush on my cheeks isn’t too obvious. 

“Aw yeah!” Tina squeals.

Abby chuckles lightly and goes to get something from the storage. While she’s away, I turn to Tina, demanding to know why she’s there.

“What do you mean, why am I here?” she blinks her innocent little eyes. “I want to enlist on the mission, of course. Why else?”

Before I can embarrass myself further by insisting she’s just in it for Abby’s sake she smiles at me and asks, “Why are you here then?”  
  
“Same reason. Yeah. I want- I want in on the mission,” I lie, and realize maybe that’s just the thing I need to do in order to make Abby notice me.

As if our day’s aren’t already filled with countless exhausting training exercises, private tutoring adds a couple more hours to it. And if Abby’s usual repertoire is ruthless, in the evenings she shows us no mercy by putting us through melee combat drills intended for someone maybe more in her weight class. 

After getting tripped and pressed against the hard cold floor for the, god knows how manieth time, when she tells me to do better I’m completely ready to throw in the towel. But then she leans her weight off me, helps me up and bites her lip amused, seeing how frustrated I get. One smirk and a playful fist to my shoulder wipes away any doubt I ever had of quitting. 

“One more time, okay?” she says again and again, and molds me as she pleases. 

\---

One day after a tutoring class, I carelessly mention something I’ve heard being spoken in the hallways.

“There’s been talk of a truce,” I say as we are finishing the lesson. I sit on the polished wooden floor tying a shoelace. 

Tina hoists her gym back over her shoulder and scoffs. “As if those savages could ever hold one. I say we kill em all. The general's right to plan this attack.”  
  
I glance at Abby, who hasn’t said a word. “What do you think, coach?” I ask her. 

Abby blinks and shakes her head, sighing. She’s still sweaty and warm from the workout. Her eyelashes are super long, and the way she pouts and frowns when she thinks of what to say, makes me want to squeak. I manage to stay silent and wait patiently for her to form her thoughts. 

“We do what we can to ensure peace,” she replies and stands up.

Tina rolls her eyes at me behind Abby’s back. She grabs her sweatshirt from the floor, inaudibly signing me to stand up and leave but I’m not done talking. 

“Do you think we actually have a chance against them?”  
  
“Not with today’s performance, you don’t,” Abby says strictly, clearly wanting to move on from the subject. “You’ve got to put your mind and soul to this thing. We’ve got a war to win.”

“But I heard-”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she interrupts and starts heading towards the doors. “Better not be spreading rumors!”

“Well, my knee feels much better after you massaged it, coach.” Tina smiles, catching up with the tall woman.

My time to roll my eyes. Tina’s not usually one to try and win the coach’s affections. I stand up from the floor and follow them.

“Well, good. I’m glad to hear it,” Abby replies, sounding genuinely happy. She keeps the heavy door open for us. 

I duck under her extended arm and for a moment, just for a brief dream-like moment, I plan on kissing her cheek to thank her for the class. The thought makes me blush. But as I turn to look at her, she’s locking the door behind us, oblivious to any of my charms. 

“Bye, coach!” Tina shouts from the staircase. 

“Bye, kids!” she waves at us, smiling, and a small tuft of hair peeks from under her arm. 

A shiver runs through my body. I lift a hand in order to wave back at her but she’s already turned away, hoisting the gym back over one massive shoulder and high fiving some guy that’s walking towards her in the hallway.

“Well, come on now!” Tina snaps at me. “I’m not gonna miss dinner because of you!”

“What’s with all the brownnosing?” I run after her, laughing, but Tina grabs a tight hold of my arm and drags me to the side. 

“What’s all this talk of truce, huh? You a traitor to the cause?” She hisses, furious.

“Wuh..? I just-” I try. I didn’t really think much of it when I mentioned it. “It’s just something I hear the big guys at the gym talk about,” I tell her. It is a little odd that neither the coach nor Tina want to even mention the enemy. It's not like I suggested we befriend them.

“You don’t just walk over to coach asking about something like that!”  
  
“Why not?” I ask, sincerely. 

“Why not? Because we’re soldiers!” Tina groans like it’s obvious. “If there’s a truce we’re out of a job, remember?” she explains, seeming genuinely shocked at my ignorance. “Besides,” she continues, letting go of my arm, “they say a truce would be ten times more lethal than active warfare.”  
  
“I guess so,” I agree and massage my sore neck. 

\---

I don’t have to dwell in my confusion about the political situation of Seattle much longer, because as soon as the very next day, Abby sits the whole class down for a lecture on the topic. 

In the dark classroom we watch a slideshow on an old projector, put together by WLF’s Public Information Board. It’s pretty straight forward. 

“The Scars are ruthless, completely lacking in moral, barbaric. To put it blandly, they’re pure evil.” Abby reads out loud from the screen. “They’re not to be interacted with. Failing to comply is considered a legal offence and will lead to severe consequences.”

“Why’d we want to talk to them?” I whisper to Becky who shushes me. She stares at the slide with a grim look on her face, clenching her fists. 

“Now, I’m gonna pass out some pictures of what a Scar imprisonment looks like,” Abby says, handing over a stack of polaroids in one end of the class. “I can promise you, it’s not pretty,” she adds, dusting her hands and stepping back. She positions herself next to the teacher’s desk and stands with her feet slightly apart from each other, both hands firmly clasped behind her back. 

Everyone stares intensely at the girl who gets the pictures first. She takes one look at the topmost photo and squeals horrified. The rest of us gasp simultaneously.

“That’s horrible!” the girl exclaims, passing on the whole stack without even looking at the rest of them. 

“Oh my god…!” the next person grins. 

“Look at his chest!”

The stack goes from hand to hand until it lands on our desk at the front. In the dim light of the projector screen I wince as I see the multitude of mutilated bodies, hanged and cut to pieces. Adults and children alike, bleeding to death with their eyes and faces stabbed beyond recognition. 

Mouth wide open from shock I lift my eyes back to Abby, and stare at her blank face, baffled. How can she just stand there, seemingly unmoved by the horrors of the Scars. Better yet, how does she sleep at night after having fought these savages hands on! Instantly my respect for her grows to all new highs. I lean back in my chair, speechless.

“Now listen,” Abby begins again, and walks over to the front row. She puts both her hands down firmly on my desk, leaning in closer, wanting to make sure she’s got everyone’s attention. 

“Were you ever to get captured by one of them,” she says, emphasizing every word, and I just gaze at her open-mouthed from below, “you better do everything in your power to make The Washington Liberation Front proud. Make Isaac proud!” She slams the desk, startling everybody.

“Make _me_ proud…” she adds, drilling her wild eyes right through me.

“Yes, ma’am!” we shout in unison. Becky even shoots up to salute the flag hanging in the corner of the room.

The class uplifts everyone’s morale; we chant WLF marches and salute every flag on our way to lunch. Laughing and jumping around we approach the mess hall, and even the long queues can’t get our spirits down. We’re on fire. 

\--- 

The first time I hold a gun I feel powerful. It’s just a small unloaded 9mm handgun but it seems to be radiating with some unexplainable source of raw force that I can absorb by just holding it. 

“Small but efficient,” Abby tells us, scribbling something on the blackboard. 

I take notes, imitating the way she writes her A’s with a little tail on top. 

Before she teaches us how to shoot with a gun though, we are taught how to build and clean one. These classes are interesting for many reasons, partly, because we get to learn something a little more technical and actually useful, partly because I get to admire Abby’s back side, as she reaches to spell words on the board or leans over someone else’s desk to help them with something. 

Once we actually get to target practice everyone seems to be excited and a little nervous. 

“I know I said I don’t like to see blood but this is so much fun!” I tell Tina and Becky on a break. “Besides, if you shoot from far enough, you don’t actually have to see any,” I reason and the girls can’t really argue with that. 

We shoot on a small range indoors with headsets on. Abby shows us first and we follow as best as we can after her. She walks behind us, observing, taking notes and occasionally fixing our postures. I try my very best not to quiver when she presses against my back and ties her hands firmly on top of mine. 

“Focus, Sarah,” she huffs in my neck. “Your stance’s way off.” 

Becky passes all her target practice drills really fast. At the end of every class we have to take a shooting match with a classmate. Everyone knows if they get paired up with Becky they’ll lose. Me and Tina make it our personal goal to beat her record and do better than her. Becky just chuckles and rubs her elbow, wishing us luck. Abby congratulates her, and they discuss their favorite guns after class. I wish I could be as good a shooter as Becky so I’d get personal advice on which rifle to use too. 

Gun practice takes place in a hall outside of the stadium and we’re transported there by trucks. Abby sits with us and listens to us brag about how many Scars we’d kill off the back of the truck if an ambush would start right then and there. We don’t even have our guns with us. Instead, we beg Abby to shoot something out of the moving car. She gives us the usual “guns are not toys” lecture but we beg and pull on her braid until she softens, swings a shotgun from her back and shoots at an old stop sign as we drive past it. Everyone cheers and she shakes her head amused. 

Eventually we move outdoors to do long range target practice. That’s when things start getting more complicated. Everything we’ve learned about good posture and aiming seems to have vanished into thin air and our bullets fly way off. 

“Keep your eye on the target at all times,” Abby shouts as we lay on the grass aiming our guns forward. “Don’t allow your gaze to drift to the barrel!”

We practice shooting a lot. Days on end. In the daylight, in the rain, at night and by playing capture the flag with paintball guns. All the time Abby observes us and corrects our gun handling. It’s fun, more than anything. And way less physical than the gym workouts and endless 25K runs across the running track. In fact, everything revolving around marksmanship and combat are my favorite subject so far. 

“May your nap be long!”

“And may her wrath be swift,” we joke and salute each other before going our separate ways after dinner. We’re always in a good mood after a great round of capture the flag. 

\---

One afternoon after our training is over Abby walks us through a forest. It's not unusual for her to initiate a long hike out of nowhere, especially now that we all got our guns, but this time we're not following any known hiking trails. She just walks directly into the wilderness without turning back to see if we follow. Of course we do, she knows we will, but the further in we go the more confused we get.

We're all following the route on our maps intensely so as not to repeat the mistake of allowing her to take us somewhere without paying attention when she suddenly asks us to find our way home.

“We ‘bout to dive a pearl for her in the river?” Becky scoffs, spinning a compass around her finger. 

“I know I would,” I mumble. 

“What was that?” Tina shrieks, imitating the voice of a truly offended upper class lady, like we’ve seen in an old movie that was broadcasted in the auditorium.

“Nothing!” I giggle and we snicker and push each other around.

“Okay class,” Abby shouts, suddenly, pausing in the middle of nowhere, instantly gaining everyone’s attention. “Today's task: swim across the river.”

“What!” I shout, and so do several others. 

Tina turns to look at me with pure shock in her wide brown eyes. Becky seems unaffected, but then again, that's her initial reaction to absolutely everything.

We’re sure Abby’s joking, but the further she goes on about protocol and explains that in combat sometimes the only way through an obstacle is to tackle it head on everyone’s smiles fade and we look around at each other, eyes and hushed mouths asking whether or not this can be real. 

“Cross the river and you get to be on the assault team,” Abby says and then, without a warning, jumps in the water and starts swimming across the roaring river with strong determined strokes.

It looks so effortless when she does it even though once she gets to the other side she appears to be slightly out of breath. As she pulls herself up from the river, bare arms sleek and shining, I admire her ass through her water dripping cargo pants. 

"Well come on, trust yourselves!” Abby shouts over the rumble of water. 

Nobody moves an inch. I hug myself helpless, wishing I could just turn around and run back to base. Many times before, Abby has put us through tasks we were sure we’d die trying to pull off. But every time we make it. Every time she’s there, catching us when we fall, lifting us up when our knees get scratched or someone sprains an ankle. So even if she were to jump off a cliff, we’d follow. That’s how we are trained; to follow our leaders until the bitter and bloodcurdling end. Or victory. You just never know which one awaits on the other side of combat, until you dare to make the leap... 

“I have faith in you!" Abby shouts and flashes a big smile. 

The freezing cold water punches me in the chest as I jump. No matter how fast and stable I try to make my strokes, in a blink of an eye I’m far away from the spot where I jumped in. Every draw of breath feels like my last. My head goes under water and I swallow, horrified and feeling like I’ll lose all sense of direction. But by some kind of a miracle, I do feel the river's muddy bottom under my sneakers eventually. Panting and spitting the dirty green water, I crawl to shore like some ugly prehistoric fish that should never have left the ocean. My soaked through t-shirt appears to be almost see-through. I have seaweed or some other kind of grass stuck to my mess of a hair and my mouth tastes like mud. Practically I couldn't look worse, although later in the lavatory I find out that I also had snot on my cheek...

"Well done, Sarah!" Abby smiles. "First one to cross! You’re in!" 

And that smile is everything to me. It gets me through the march back to base in wet clothes. I feed off of it all week. I run, lift, carry and aim like never before. I don’t even care that apparently I had to jump head first into a roaring river without second guessing in order to win my position on the team of the upcoming assault mission. 

"Great job! Look at you go!" Abby cheers us on. But in my mind, she's talking to me alone. 

At dinner I can barely eat. I lean against my arm and sigh, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the mess hall. Tina and Becky catch up on it. _Well done, Sarah!_ becomes our little inside joke. They tease me with it. When I spill my cup or answer correctly to a simple question like what day it is, "Well done, great job! Look at you go!" Tina coos, clapping her hands. I scream at her laughing that she just doesn't understand. She agrees with me. She doesn't want to understand. 

"I don't get what you see in her. Why do you think she's so dreamy? She looks like a man!"

"No she doesn't!" I argue back, rolling on my bunk bed, to look at her picture from the letter Isaac sent. I’ve pinned it on the wall next to my pillow. I try to explain it, how she makes me feel invincible and strong just by looking at her. How I’d do anything for her. 

"Abby's a… goddamn warrior goddess! Nothing can touch her."

"Least of all you," Becky remarks.

I blush and throw a pillow at her.


End file.
